


Castaway

by notherenovember (passionfish11)



Category: Static Shock
Genre: Bigotry, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:34:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionfish11/pseuds/notherenovember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his dad kicks him out, Richie knows where he's going. The whole thing wouldn't be that bad, except that it's snowing, and he wasn't thinking clearly enough to grab shoes on his way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the_gas_station on LJ back in 2011.

It wasn’t that his dad hadn’t tried to change after finding out that his son’s best friend was black, because he had. Tried, that is. As far as actually changing went there hadn’t been much progress. It was possible that Richie was being a little overly hard on his father, because after all, it wasn’t easy to change a view that one had held for an entire lifetime, even if that view was completely and totally ridiculous. (Richie had meant it when he’d called his dad’s racism ‘stupid,’ even if, in retrospect, it made him sound… well, stupid. The actions that racism led people to were mostly terrifying, but the ideology itself was just stupid.) Maybe that was why Richie couldn’t quite believe that he was being too hard on his dad; it wasn’t easy to find sympathy for bigots, wasn’t easy to try looking at things from their perspective, because hate and ignorance don’t do a lot to make people empathize.

But really, Richie didn’t think he was being too hard on his dad, because his dad hadn’t actually changed. Oh, sure, he’d stopped ranting about how blacks were ruining society, but if he’d had a bad day at work (which was nearly every day), it was black coworkers that he complained about, speaking about them with a particular contempt that was absent when he talked about his white coworkers, who were always referred to by name and never by their race. The only thing that Mr. Foley had changed was the way that he talked, and even that hadn’t changed much. In some ways it had gotten worse, because now, unable to rant about blacks without fearing that Richie would run away again, he had taken to complaining about a different group, unknowingly alienating his son even further. Homosexuals were even worse than blacks, because they were perverts, deviants twisting the fabric of society with the intent of destroying it for absolutely no reason at all. Blacks, at least, couldn’t help that they were born black. Gays, though? They were just sick in the head.

So no, Richie didn’t really think he was being overly hard on his father, because his father was still a bigot, and the little bit of effort he had made to change was too little, too late for Richie. Still. He had gotten plenty of practice over the years, practice with not responding, with just keeping his head down and biting his tongue to keep from saying anything even though he hated himself for it because his life would only get worse if he started butting heads with his dad. He’d had a fantasy for years and years of just waiting until he was eighteen and then telling his father all of those things he’d kept bottled up inside, every time that he’d had to sit there and listen while his dad boiled over with hatred and ignorance, and then leaving, finding a place on his own, and maybe then his mom would finally divorce the guy and they could just… he could move in with his mom and everything would be so much better, neither of them suffocating under his father’s wrath, and why hadn’t she divorced him yet anyways?

Hell, forget divorce, why had she married the guy to begin with? Not that Richie was complaining, as he owed his existence to the union, and he rather liked existing, although he knew logically that if he hadn’t been born then he wouldn’t miss any of it because he wouldn’t- anyways, couldn’t it have been a one night stand or something instead? His mom was meek around her husband, practically a doormat, but Richie knew that that wasn’t the case in most other situations. Couldn’t she have just raised him as a single mother? Except that if it weren’t for his dad’s job they wouldn’t have moved to Dakota in the first place and then Richie wouldn’t have Virgil, ironically enough, and as much as he hated- as much as he wished things were different, he wouldn’t change a thing if it meant he and Virgil wouldn’t be friends.

But that hadn’t been where his original train of thought had been heading, Richie thought as he walked, arms folded close together for warmth and eyes glued to the ground in front of him, watching out for bits of glass and metal to avoid. Since becoming a genius his “mental train station,” as it were, had grown exponentially, with thoughts taking so many different paths that it was a wonder he hadn’t gone insane yet. Actually, it was probably less of a wonder and more of thank-god-for-Virgil thing, but that was also an entirely different topic. The thing that Richie couldn’t figure out was why he had opened his mouth this time. He’d spent almost sixteen years dealing with his father’s seemingly endless rage at every person who was even minutely different from what he deemed the norm. As a kid it had always been blacks, and then as Richie got older it was him, too, because he wasn’t the son that his father had expected. Not the son that his father hadn’t wanted, because even though he was terrible at showing it Sean Foley did love his son, but definitely not what his father had been expecting in a son. So it wasn’t even that he wasn’t used to his father’s rage being aimed at him, because he’d had as much if not more experience being the object of his father’s rants as hearing his father go off about African-Americans. Particularly now that his father had bang babies and gays to rant about as well.

It hadn’t really been anything different tonight. His dad was dominating the conversation at dinner, if a tirade could be called conversation, in a particularly foul mood because Maggie wasn’t there, working late- which meant that dinner was warmed up and not fresh – and for some reason, Richie couldn’t hold back any more. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was that his father had said, couldn’t even really remember what he’d said, but it had escalated quickly. He was yelling, because his dad was yelling, and then they were both standing up, chairs pushed away from the table and food forgotten, and he’d said something that had made his father particularly mad, he wasn’t sure what, and suddenly he was stumbling backwards, glasses askew and a throbbing pain on the side of his face, and then he tripped over the chair and was sitting on the floor, staring up at his father’s livid face. “Get out,” his father had hissed, pointing to the door as though Richie needed directions, “I will not tolerate that kind of talk or that kind of behavior in this house, and if you can’t keep your mouth shut and show some respect then you don’t belong in this house. Out.”

“See, that’s the problem here,” Richie had said as he stood up and straightened his glasses, “you won’t tolerate anything.” Without waiting for a response and too angry to think about logical things like shoes and jackets Richie had left, going out the back door because even though his mind was too preoccupied to think about things that he needed it had plenty of room to be spiteful, although going out the back door when his father had pointed to front door was not, in the grand scheme of things, a particularly spiteful thing to do.

And now, here he was. Barefoot, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and a hoodie, wandering the streets of Dakota. In winter. At least it wasn’t snowing this time. _I guess next time I should run away in the spring_ , Richie thought, but it wasn’t really funny. When he’d first stepped out of the house, he’d still been running on the adrenaline from the fight. He could have gone back inside and grabbed shoes and a jacket, but how would that look? Like surrender. Like a laugh-track moment in a sitcom where everything was going to be alright in the end. No, at first, he’d just started walking, as good as oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes or weather appropriate attire. That hadn’t lasted long.

Without thinking about it, Richie had started walking in the direction of the Hawkins residence. He was almost there, now, but it had taken him a lot longer than it would have under normal circumstances. It wasn’t because he was barefoot, feet shifting from bright red to a dangerous blue and quite possibly cut in more than one place without his knowing it because they were so cold, and it wasn’t because he was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn’t paying attention to the speed he was walking at. No, it was just that Richie could be stubborn, too. People tended to underestimate him, not just as Richie Foley but as Gear too, and it was mainly because people were comparing him to Virgil, or to Static. Actually, Richie was fairly certain that people would have underestimated him even without V’s presence, because he was just one of those people that didn’t seem likely to do much of anything worth noting. Really, if it weren’t for Virgil, they’d probably be right- if it weren’t for Virgil then… well, Richie didn’t have much going for him.

The point was that when compared to Virgil, Richie wasn’t much. And people were always comparing them, even if only subconsciously, because they were always together. Until the events that led to Richie becoming Gear, Richie had been a B- average student. Most of his grades had been high Cs and low Bs, and that was partly from not trying but it was also just that learning was hard. And actually, that was probably why he hadn’t been trying. Teachers and his father had always just said he was stupid or lazy for not getting what they were trying to teach him, and Richie had always kind of believed them. Thinking about it, it seemed more likely that he’d had an undiagnosed learning disability and- _that’s not the point_ , Richie thought, narrowing his eyes as he cut off the train of thought.

_The point was_ , until the big bang, Virgil had been the smarter of the two of them. Virgil had been the more confident of the two, which had only increased with him becoming Static. Richie was bullied less than V, but that had more to do with the fact that he had plenty of practice with just ducking his head and shutting up, while V’s dad had always encouraged his son to stand up for what he believed. Richie was just the class clown. Harmless, stupid, obnoxious, but occasionally funny, which made it acceptable. People had always underestimated him, and probably always would, and maybe he deserved some of that, because it wasn’t as if some of it wasn’t true. His usual response in a situation of fight or flight was _flee, Richie, flee!_ So far it had kept him alive, so he wasn’t going to regret that, but Richie could be stubborn too. Maybe it didn’t show as often in him as it did in Virgil, but Richie Foley could be stubborn.

And it was stubbornness that had slowed him down as he walked the distance between his house and Virgil’s. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that for the sake of his health he should have walked faster, or, heck, called V on the shock vox and gotten picked up rather than stay out in the cold, but he also wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Virgil was always saving him. He didn’t mind it, most of the time. It was annoying, sure, and it really only encouraged the papers to call him Static’s sidekick instead of his partner, but it wasn’t like it happened more than once a month (to hear the Flash tell it it was every other day that Richie needed saving, but the Flash was a lying liar who lied and a drama queen to boot, albeit one with a heart of gold).

But outside of the superhero business, Virgil saved him a lot, too, perhaps more, though not in ways that were obvious or involved hostage situations (although that had happened too). And ever since finding out what exactly Richie’s home life was like, V had had this… look to him, a sort of anticipation that reared its head every time Richie’s dad came up in conversation, like he was ready to just swoop in there and save Richie. It wasn’t that Richie didn’t understand why or didn’t appreciate that his friend was willing to do just about anything for him. It was just…

Richie stopped, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward, and didn’t cry. He sighed, his breath visible in the cold, and for a moment that was all he could stand to do. Just breathe and maybe that would be enough. He had uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, even though it was warmer with his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits. He didn’t even try to deny that he was punishing himself. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t his fault. In the sense of cause and effect, yes, if he hadn’t said anything then he wouldn’t be here now, but in the sense that he had no control over the way his dad was, no, he wasn’t at fault.

His dad and his teachers and all of those people who had underestimated him were wrong, not just in light of his current status as a super-genius but in the grand scheme of things, they were wrong about him. He knew all of that, clearly and logically laid out in his mind like the schematics of an invention, but becoming a super-genius had not changed the fact that he was human. He wasn’t at fault, but he hurt. He was angry, and since he couldn’t hurt his dad directly, he’d go the indirect route… even if that meant hurting himself. At least that way the outside and the inside were in balance.

He stood there a moment longer, allowing the emotional part of his brain to take control. Richie sighed again, running a hand shakily through his hair before jamming it back into the relative warmth of his pocket. The side of his face stung from his father’s backhand, and his feet were so numb with cold that he half believed they were burning, and… “Virgil will kill me if I get hypothermia,” he said on an exhale, managing a small smile before opening his eyes again. The Hawkins residence was right in front of him.

Richie walked up the steps, stood in front of the door, and hesitated, finger hovering above the doorbell. “C’mon, Foley,” he whispered, unsure if his voice was shaky because of cold or because of fear, “you’ve taken on guys like Ebon. It won’t kill you to ring your best friend’s doorbell.” He still hesitated. _Just do it_ , he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, and then… he had done it. “Damn it,” he hissed, shoving his hand back into his pocket as though it had been burned. He hated this. Hated being seen as a victim, hated that someone would probably tell him he was braver for reaching out than if he had just stayed on the streets, hated that now was the moment when he couldn’t seem to keep a few stray tears from escaping his eyes.

He opened his eyes when he heard the door swing open, managing a wan smile as he greeted his friend. “Hey V. Mind if I sleep over tonight?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie insists in this chapter that his father does not abuse him, but I just want to clarify that that's because he's in denial. Sean Foley, as I've written him, is definitely abusive.

“Hey V. Mind if I sleep over tonight?”

“Richie?!”  Virgil’s expression had shifted from whatever-I’m-opening-the-door to oh-my-god-what-happened so quickly that it would have been comical if it weren’t for the situation being what it was. “What happened to your face, man?” Virgil was staring at him with something akin to horror.

Richie blinked, getting one hand out of his pocket to gingerly touch at his cheek. “Is it already bruising?” he asked, genuinely surprised- he hadn’t thought his dad had hit him that hard, but then again, he’d gone out into the cold almost immediately after being hit, and everything was feeling a little bit numb, so he wasn’t really the best judge of such things at the moment.

Virgil stepped out of his house to stand on the stoop in front of Richie, ignoring the cold as he reached a hand up to lightly touch Richie’s cheek, and Richie jammed his own hand back into his pocket. Virgil put slightly more pressure on the bruise than Richie had, and Richie winced. Okay, yeah, he felt that.

Virgil ignored the wince in favor of the significantly more worrisome temperature of his best friend’s skin. “Jesus, Rich, you’re freezing!” he said, looking his friend over more carefully. He had been too distracted by the bruise on Richie’s cheek at first to notice that Richie was barefoot, but now that he had, “Come on,” he said quickly, grabbing Richie by the arm to drag him into the house, hoping that the panic he was feeling wasn’t too obvious in his voice.

Richie didn’t protest being dragged inside, though he didn’t really need to be dragged, as he was more than ready to be done with the cold. Of course, the sudden sensation of everything burning as his body tried to deal with the sudden temperature change wasn’t particularly pleasant either. As Virgil shut the door behind them and turned to face his friend, Richie suddenly wanted to be back outside. He was here now, though, and he couldn’t just leave. That didn’t stop him from trying to stall, though. “Is it really hot in here or is it just me?” he asked, moving to take off his hoodie and averting his eyes from his friend’s face. Virgil wasn’t having that.

“Prolly just you, bro, considering that you’re practically blue,” Virgil said seriously, grabbing hold of Richie’s hands, flinching internally at their temperature, to stop him from unzipping the hoodie and force Richie to meet his eyes. “Richie, what’s going on? Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

Richie stared at Virgil, looking him directly in the eyes, and wished desperately that Virgil would let go of his hands so that he could back up, get his back against the wall and just fade into it, but, alas, even if he were allowed to back up, melting with walls was not a power that the Bang had granted him. Richie sighed, dropping his head and closing his eyes in resignation. No more avoiding it- might as well get it over with. “Fight with my dad,” he said shortly, unable to bring himself to admit that his dad had basically kicked him out, even if only temporarily.

Virgil inhaled sharply, expression hardening as his anger at Richie’s dad momentarily eclipsed his worry for his friend. “He the one that hit you?” he asked lowly, unable to keep his anger from leaking into his voice.

And see, this was one of the things he’d been hoping to avoid. Richie exhaled harshly, looking up and turning his head away from Virgil. “V-” he started, but cut himself off almost immediately. He had no idea what to say. The truth, sure, and where would that lead?

Virgil took in Richie’s silence and unwillingness to look him in the eyes and deflated slightly, the anger overtaken once more by sadness. His shoulders sagged slightly and he let go of Richie’s hands, accepting for the moment that his friend didn’t want to tell him the details. But still… “Rich, why aren’t you wearing shoes? I mean, last time you ran away you took a backpack with you and everything, and you weren’t even a super genius back then. What’s the deal?”

Richie sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. Did he have ice in his hair? Seriously? _Stop stalling_ , he thought firmly, gritting his teeth, _drawing it out isn’t going to make it any better_. Richie sighed again and glanced up at the ceiling before managing to actually look at Virgil. “My dad… kind of kicked me out,” he admitted, eyes sliding away from his friend’s face uncomfortably. “I didn’t really have time to grab shoes.”

The lights in the foyer flickered dangerously. Virgil took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to keep his powers under control. “He kicked you out?” he asked tersely, eyes shut so that he didn’t wind up aiming what he knew would be a venomous glare at Richie. “Without shoes?”

Richie snorted humorlessly. “I don’t think he was really thinking about my footwear when he said it, V,” Richie said dryly. “I don’t think it’s permanent, though,” he added. He didn’t clearly remember what he had said to his father, but he was certain that he hadn’t come out to his dad, which meant that being kicked out was just a temporary thing. Most likely.

Virgil had to take another deep breath at that. The only thing that could be worse than Richie being kicked out was the idea that he would go back there. Virgil sighed, forcing himself to put his anger aside. Being angry about it wouldn’t help anything, and Richie needed him. Virgil reached out to touch the unharmed side of Richie’s face and frowned. “You’re still freezing.”

“Well, yeah, V,” Richie said bluntly, “I walked here from my house without shoes, I’m probably going to be cold for awhile.” Richie felt slightly guilty at the expression on Virgil’s face, but he couldn’t help it. It was just the way he talked, he wasn’t trying to guilt trip anybody. Before he could apologize, though, Virgil’s expression shifted as he realized something that Richie had been hoping he wouldn’t.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Virgil demanded, his expression scarily similar to Sharon’s when she was scolding one or both of them (though Richie would never tell V that). “I could have flown you here in no time, or me and pops could’ve picked you up! Did you not have your shock vox or something?”

Richie opened his mouth, and then shut it. Virgil had given him the perfect out, except that Richie _did_ have his shock vox, and he didn’t want to lie to his friend. “I dunno, bro, I just wasn’t thinking, I guess,” Richie said, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

Virgil stared at him. Richie Foley, super genius, hadn’t been thinking. While it wasn’t an outright lie, they both knew it wasn’t true. Normally, he and Richie told each other everything, which was part of why they worked so well together as superheroes, acting as partners where most superheroes acted as individuals, even when working together, or with a sidekick. The few times that Richie had hidden things from him, or vice versa, because being totally honest, Virgil had done his own share of hiding things, it was something bad, in the sense that it was Richie who was getting hurt.

Normally, he’d push it, and they’d have a fight, and not talk for a day or two, and then they’d work it out and be back to their normal routine. This wasn’t a time when that would work. Richie needed him, and if there were some things that he didn’t want to talk about, then… okay. For now it was okay. He trusted that they would eventually talk about it, but now wasn’t the time to push. “Okay,” Virgil said aloud, “come on, we’d better talk to my pops. And then you need to get warmed up. Blue is not a good color for you, man. You look like Smurfette.”

“I do not,” Richie protested, grinning faintly, grateful that Virgil had backed off this time. Now if only he would go along with Richie’s next request. He hesitated, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Uh, V?”

Virgil cocked his head at him curiously, though the look on his face suggested he knew what Richie was about to get at. “Yes?” he asked slowly.

“Can I skip talking to your pops?” Richie asked hopefully.

Virgil sighed. “Rich, man…” Virgil trailed off, looking his friend over. “Look, I know you don’t wanna talk about it,” he continued, holding up his hands in placating motion as Richie tensed, gearing for a fight, “But you know my pops, he’s not gonna push you. And… man, your dad kicked you out,” Virgil said, an apology for bringing it up in his eyes. “Even if it’s only temporary we gotta talk to my pops. Where else you gonna stay?”

Richie couldn’t help the feelings that bubbled up in him at Virgil’s words. Part of it was an incredible feeling of love and gratitude. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known that V would let him stay there, but it was still… special to hear it. Special wasn’t really the word, but there was no word that he could think of to cover what he was feeling. He needed to read the dictionary some time.

The other feeling was just that same stubbornness again, but with a new feeling of rage attached to it. Irrational, he knew, because it wasn’t like V had said it to insinuate that Richie was helpless without him, but even so. He didn’t like having to rely on Virgil and his family, didn’t like any of it at all.

Richie sighed, and his shoulders sagged as the tension drained out of him. “I know, Virg, I know. But I just don’t – please, V,” Richie said, unable to hide his weariness as he looked at his friend. “I – tomorrow, okay?”

Virgil sighed. “Okay,” he said, “okay, fine.” Tomorrow was better than nothing, he thought. “But I gotta talk to my pops, man.”

“Yeah, I know,” Richie said, managing a small smile. “You mind if I go ahead and take a shower?”

“Shouldn’t you warm up first?” Virgil asked doubtfully.

“Eh,” Richie said dismissively, shrugging, “I’ve already warmed up enough that I think I should be fine.”

“…Okay, man,” Virgil said finally. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“I won’t,” Richie said, going up the stairs. Virgil watched him go up thoughtfully.

Virgil took a deep breath. He hesitated only a moment before walking back to the kitchen. He was kind of surprised that neither his father nor his sister had come out to see why it was taking him so long to answer the door, but then again, if they had heard Richie’s voice, they probably assumed it was business as usual. Virgil hadn’t really meant it when he’d compared Richie to a fungus they couldn’t get rid of (he had, in fact, apologized for it the next day), but it was an apt comparison in that Richie was almost always there. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Virgil pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Sharon and Mr. H looked up expectantly as Virgil walked in. Sharon leaned back in her seat, peering behind Virgil curiously. “Wasn’t that Richie?”

“Uh, yeah,” Virgil said awkwardly. “Um, pops? Can I talk to you a minute?”

Mr. Hawkins raised an eyebrow curiously. “Sure, son,” he said, pushing his seat back from the table and standing up to follow his son into the living room. After waiting a moment for Virgil to start, Mr. Hawkins prompted him, “Well?”

Virgil sighed. “Okay, so, Richie-” Virgil stopped. It was surprisingly difficult to say it. He took another deep breath and forced himself to say bluntly, “Richie’s dad kicked him out.”

Mr. Hawkins’ eyebrows went up. “I see,” he said after a moment. “Naturally Richie can stay here for as long as he needs to.” He wasn’t unused to dealing with teenage runaways and kids who had no place to go because their parents kicked them out. It was never easy, and given previous experiences with Mr. Foley, it was not unexpected, but it was a much more difficult thing to face when the person was someone you knew. “And…?” Mr. Hawkins asked after a glance at his son revealed that Virgil had more to say.

Virgil fidgeted, hands curling unconsciously into fists. “Richie walked here. Without shoes.” Virgil hesitated a moment, fairly certain that Richie would not want him to tell his father about the bruise forming on his cheek. “…I think his dad hit him,” he said finally.

“You’re not sure?” Mr. Hawkins asked seriously.

“Richie wouldn’t tell me,” Virgil said softly. “He said that he doesn’t think he’s been permanently kicked out, though.”

Mr. Hawkins sighed, lifting up his glasses momentarily to rub at the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t do much about Richie’s father hitting him, not if Richie wouldn’t admit it. There were other more pressing aspects of the situation that he could deal with, though. “You said Richie walked here barefoot?”

“Yeah,” Virgil said, a look of frustration on his face. “I don’t get why he didn’t call me, pops,” Virgil said suddenly. “I mean, I – we could’ve picked him up,” Virgil amended quickly, “He’s supposed to be smart.”

“These things are not that simple, Virgil. Richie’s probably feeling a lot of conflicting emotions right now; what he needs right now is your support.” Mr. Hawkins gave his son a serious look. He and Virgil would have to have a conversation later about the whole thing, but for the moment taking care of Richie was the priority. “Where is Richie now?”

“In the shower, warming up,” Virgil said, running a hand through his dreads. “He, uh, he didn’t want to talk to you. Not tonight, anyways.”

“That’s understandable,” Mr. Hawkins said with a sigh. “I hope he wasn’t outside long enough to get sick.”

“Me too,” Virgil said lowly.

“Virgil,” Mr. Hawkins said, “I know you want to help Richie, but you shouldn’t try to push him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Virgil said glumly. Mr. Hawkins looked like he was about to say something more, but at that moment there was the sound of the water shutting off. Virgil looked up. “I’m gonna go see if Rich needs anything,” he said after a moment, standing up to leave.

“Virgil,” Mr. Hawkins said, stopping his son from leaving, “Did Richie say why his father kicked him out?”

“An argument,” Virgil said shortly, “Didn’t say about what.”

Mr. Hawkins nodded. “Alright.”

Virgil went upstairs. Richie had already left the bathroom, and Virgil knocked on his own door before opening it. Richie looked up from where he was going through his friend’s clothes at Virgil’s entrance, his skin no longer blue in color. “Hope you don’t mind, V,” Richie said with a grin, already wearing a pair of Virgil’s sweatpants.

“Bro, when have I ever minded?” Virgil asked dryly, doing his best to hide the slight flinch at the sight of the bruise on Richie’s cheek, much clearer now that he wasn’t blue with cold. He walked over to Richie and laid a hand on his bare shoulder, frowning at the still cooler than normal temperature of his skin.

“I can think of a few times,” Richie said wryly, pulling a sweatshirt out of the drawer.

Virgil stopped him from putting it on. “You oughta wear a shirt under that – don’t wanna get sick, do you?”

Richie rolled his eyes but accepted the shirt that Virgil dug out for him, pulling it on before the sweatshirt. “Yes, mother,” he said sarcastically.

“You hungry?” Virgil asked after a moment. At Richie’s hesitation, Virgil added, “I can prolly get pops to cook something so you don’t have to brave Sharon’s toxic cooking.”

“Nah,” Richie said after a moment, “I’m good. Thanks bro.”

“Okay,” Virgil said, glancing at his alarm clock. “You wanna play a few video games before bed?”

At the word bed, Richie yawned. Virgil gave him a grin and raised an eyebrow and Richie laughed sheepishly. “Think that’s your answer right there, Virg. I’m beat.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Virgil said lowly, grin fading as his gaze shifted to the bruise on his friend’s cheek.

Richie looked away, inwardly cursing his choice of words. “Virg-”

“Rich, I know you don’t want to talk about and you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Virgil said in a rush, “but I gotta know. Is this the first time your dad’s hit you?”

Richie sucked in a breath sharply. _Have you stopped beating your wife?_ Richie thought, recalling a joke he’d overheard somewhere. _Yes or no you’ve admitted to spousal abuse._ He glanced at his friend. Virgil was staring at him anxiously, and Richie sighed. He couldn’t keep avoiding the issue if it was bothering his friend that much. “Yes,” he said quietly, sitting down on Virgil’s bed. Richie bit his lip and glanced at Virgil. The expression he saw there made him sigh and lean back, looking away before saying almost inaudibly, “… actually, no, it’s not the first time.”

Virgil made a slightly choked sound and paced between his bed and the closet a few times before sitting down next to Richie. Virgil’s first thought was to ask why Richie’d never told him about it before, but he held back, remembering what his father had said. They sat there in silence for a moment, and then Virgil asked softly, “So… how long has he-?”

Richie sighed. “My dad doesn’t abuse me, V.”

“Richie-”

“I’m serious, Virg,” Richie said, cutting off his friend’s protest. “He’s a terrible father, a racist, a homophobe, and he has a terrible temper, but he doesn’t abuse me. He’s hit me maybe a grand total of five times, not counting spankings when I was a kid.”

 “Richie, I don’t care how many times he’s hit you, that’s still abuse!” Virgil said hotly as he stood, forgetting momentarily that he was not supposed to push his friend, lest he push him away. He hadn’t even realized that he was getting as worked up as he was until the lights began to flicker.

“V,” Richie said warningly, and although his eyes flicked up to the ceiling light Virgil had the distinct feeling that that wasn’t what the warning tone was about. Virgil took a breath to steady himself, then looked curiously at Richie as he walked past him and switched off the lights. “Easier to talk in the dark?” Richie offered by way of explanation. “Also less chance of your powers going haywire.”

Virgil inclined his head in acknowledgement of the logic, though he doubted that Richie saw the movement. For a moment they stood in the dark, the only sound the creaking of the bed as Richie sat back down and then the sound of the blond taking his glasses off and putting them on Virgil’s bedside table. Virgil chewed on his lower lip, mulling over his next words carefully. “I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he said slowly, pausing after he had put his disclaimer out there so that Richie could respond.

It took a moment, probably because since Richie had taken off his glasses and turned out the lights he most likely couldn’t see that Virgil was staring at him expectantly. “Okay,” he said when it became apparent from the length of the pause that he was meant to say something.

“Why are you defending him?” Virgil blurted out almost immediately. He wasn’t very good at subtle. Richie was. He was good at avoiding people too, and Virgil suddenly wondered if that was Mr. Foley’s fault. Then again, Virgil was rather biased when it came to Mr. Foley, so.

Richie looked in his friend’s direction bemusedly. “How exactly did I defend him?” he asked, genuinely curious about which point had sounded like a defense of his father. “I clearly acknowledged that he’s a terrible father,” Richie said, counting his points on his fingers, “as well as a racist and a homophobe – which really it would just be easier to say that my dad’s a solid pile of hate, because I honestly think he hates everyone most of the time-”

“Rich,” Virgil said, cutting off what was likely to turn into an unrelated rant that would somehow lead to some kind of mathematical equation or the meaning of life or something. It happened a lot, now that Richie was a genius, and although it was sometimes an intentional ploy to change the subject or avoid a topic, it was more often that Richie just saw connections that no one else did and his brain literally got carried away, like a runaway train that was unstoppable once it had picked up steam. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. You mean the part where he hit me. I’m not defending that he did that, V. It’s just that it’s not child abuse,” Richie said logically. “It sucks, yeah. But it’s not child abuse. It’s him losing his temper.”

“But-” Virgil cut himself off with an angry huff and sat down heavily on his bed next to Richie. “And kicking you out?” he demanded, “That’s not child abuse?”

“Don’t think so,” Richie said with a shrug. “Not in the legal definition at any rate. And anyways, I’m really pretty sure it’s just a temporary thing. When my mom gets back from work tonight they’ll probably fight about it and then she’ll call here and tell me to come home. And then my dad will mutter some barely intelligible apology at me and I’ll mutter something back at him and we’ll be back to business as usual,” Richie added with a snort.

Suddenly sensing that he was being stared at, Richie turned his head to look in Virgil’s direction. It was slightly easier to make out his friend’s features now that they were closer together, but he couldn’t actually see Virgil’s expression, not without his glasses. It made things easier and harder at the same time. “…What?” he asked nervously after a moment, the side of his mouth hitching up into an uncertain smile.

Virgil bit his lip. The bruise looked like just a shadow or a smudge of graphite in the darkness, simple and unthreatening, but knowing what it was made it impossible to forget. Richie was looking directly at him, holding the gaze for the longest that he had that night and Virgil knew that it was mainly because Richie couldn’t really see him. His grey eyes seemed to be looking into Virgil’s own brown eyes, but the aim was slightly off so that Richie’s gaze was just to the side of Virgil’s eyes. It wasn’t like Virgil had never seen Richie with his glasses off. Technically when he was Gear he wasn’t wearing glasses either, but it was different. The helmet still obscured Richie’s face, even if only just. If he wasn’t wearing his helmet he was wearing his glasses. Practically the only time he was without glasses was when he was sleeping.

It was, therefore, a little strange to be having a conversation with Richie while he was without glasses. Sans glasses, Richie’s face was somehow more open, easier to read, and Virgil was thinking that maybe he should see Richie without glasses more often, because maybe then he would have known sooner about the way that Richie’s life outside of Virgil’s really was.

Virgil surged forward suddenly, grabbing Richie in a hug that nearly knocked the surprised blonde backwards. “Uh?” Richie said, eloquently expressing his confusion as he returned the hug. Virgil just held on tighter, not saying a word.

Though both of them were silent, a million words hung in the air around them, possibilities that ached to fill the silence and fix the hurt, but which would all fall short. For a minute, there was a tension with the presence of the unsaid words that made both of them stiff and awkward, but it dissipated. Words were unnecessary. The two of them relaxed and settled back against the bed, with Virgil lying on top of Richie and their legs tangled together. For a long moment the room was silent.

Virgil didn’t say anything as Richie started crying, just shifted their positions so that they were lying on their sides and held on to his friend. He couldn’t protect Richie all the time. He knew that. Knew that really, there were just going to be some things that were Richie’s to deal with, no matter how much they sucked and how much he wanted to just take it all away. No matter how much he wanted to he couldn’t just wave a wand and make it better. He couldn’t make Richie’s dad be less of an asshole. But he could do this. He could hold onto Richie for now, could be a safe place when things got bad.

For all the maturity that both of them had gained since becoming superheroes they were still teenage boys. As such, they didn’t really tend to say ‘I love you.’  They didn’t really need to say it because they both knew it, and as of yet they hadn’t had an experience that was life threatening enough to prompt a vocal expression of the sentiment. Not while both of them were conscious, at least. It had shaken Virgil badly when Richie was shot, and he hadn’t been able to keep himself from saying it while Richie was still unconscious from the surgery. Virgil felt the same undeniable urge to say the words as Richie’s crying slowed to a stop. He couldn’t decide, however, if this was a situation where he could breach their mutual status as teenage boys.

“V?”

Virgil glanced down at his friend, thoughts interrupted. “Yeah?”

Richie opened his mouth and then shut it, and then said softly, “… I love you.”

Virgil almost laughed. “I love you too, Rich.” He could see Richie smile in the dark. “…You can’t read minds, can you?”

Richie snorted. “We’ve gone over this before, V.”

“Yeah, but you do that thing with Backpack-”

“That’s different and you know it!”

“Let me have my delusions, bro. The truth is too creepy.”

“It is not creepy,” Richie said, poking Virgil in the side, “it’s practical.”

Virgil shimmied away from Richie’s finger with a giggle. “It can be creepy and practical at the same time,” he pointed out.

From that point the whole thing just dissolved into a tickling match, both boys giggling madly. When they had settled down again Richie grinned at him. “Comfortable?”

Virgil groaned. “Aw man, are you gonna ask me to get up now? I totally retract my offer of food.”

“Huh? Oh. No, my only interest is in your comfort, I swear,” Richie said, grin returning quickly after a brief moment of confusion.

“Really.”

Richie couldn’t see Virgil’s expression but he could imagine it perfectly. “Really. If you go to sleep in your jeans you know you’ll regret it in the morning,” he said, raising his eyebrows and tugging on the belt loops of his friend’s pants to emphasize his point.

There was a pause and then Virgil asked, “Why do you always have to be so logical?”

“Super-genius, bro. Comes with the territory,” Richie said, smirk audible in his voice even if it wasn’t totally visible in the dark room. Virgil heaved a put-upon sigh and crawled over Richie. “Dude, you didn’t have to get out of bed to take your pants off.”

“Yeah, I know, _genius_. But I should probably tell my pops that your mom might call. And tell him goodnight, too,” Virgil added as an afterthought, light flooding the room as he opened the door. “Be right back.”

“Kay,” Richie said as Virgil closed the door behind him. He stared at the door for a moment, eyes readjusting to the dark, and then rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. Tentatively he reached up to feel his cheek, sucking in a breath through his teeth when he pushed the bruise too hard. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Virgil that his dad had only hit him a handful of times, but this was definitely the hardest he’d hit him. Richie frowned, trying to remember what exactly it was that he had said to make his dad so angry, but his memory came up blank.

He sighed. Some part of him was rebelling – that same stubborn side of him was trying to rear its head once again, but he just didn’t have the energy to keep it going. He didn’t really need it any more, now that he was here and now that he and Virgil had talked. Richie wished he could say (think? _It’s just an expression,_ he gritted out to his overactive mind, wishing it would just let him think without it inserting its commentary. Sometimes having Big Bang induced intelligence sucked) that he wasn’t surprised that talking to V had gone as well as it did, but he kind of was. They didn’t exactly have a great history with that kind of thing.

As the door opened again, Richie turned to face the light, squinting until the door shut again.”I kinda thought you’d be asleep,” Virgil confessed as he walked over to the bed. “Scoot over man. And get under the covers,” Virgil said, tone scolding as he switched to his mother hen mode, “If you get sick it’s not gonna be my fault.”

Richie sighed theatrically as pulled the covers out from under him and then burrowed underneath them. “Fine, but don’t complain when I wind up getting all sweaty in your bed.” Virgil paused in the middle of taking his pants off and the two boys shared a look before bursting out laughing. “Don’t. Say. Anything.” Richie said between laughs, attempt at a warning tone completely lost.

“Bro, I don’t HAVE to say anything,” Virgil said with a grin, “You did just fine on your own.” He left his pants in a pile on the floor, exchanging his long sleeved shirt for an undershirt before getting into bed. He crowded Richie up against the wall before manhandling him into the circle of his arms, making Richie giggle insanely.

“Dude, what the hell?” Richie grinned, nonetheless allowing himself to be embraced by his friend.

Even knowing that Richie wasn’t looking for an answer and that answering honestly would possibly serve only to piss Richie off, Virgil couldn’t help mumbling “just wanna keep you safe.”

“I always feel safe with you, V,” Richie said with a yawn and a grin. He’d get onto Virgil about the whole damsel-in-distress syndrome that was going on there later. For now he was tired, and comfortable, and in a childish way, with the wall at his back and his best friend curled around him, he really did feel completely safe. No monsters would get him tonight. Not while he had V.

“Night, Richie.”

“Goodnight, Virgil.”

 

The ringing of the telephone woke him up. He groped in the dark for his glasses before switching on the lamp and glancing at the clock, only briefly wondering who would be calling at midnight before answering the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Hawkins? I’m sorry to call so late,” said a flustered sounding woman, “This is Maggie Foley, Richie’s mother? Is he there?”

Robert was immediately alert. “Mrs. Foley. Yes, Richie’s here. He didn’t want to talk to me, so I haven’t seen him, but I know Virgil’s taking care of him.”

“Oh thank god,” she said with obvious relief. There was the sound of Mrs. Foley releasing a breath heavily, like she had been holding her breath up until that moment.

In a way, Robert supposed that she had been holding her breath, unable to really relax until she knew for sure that Richie was safe. He cleared his throat. “Richie said that his father kicked him out…?”

Maggie let out a huff that obviously had some anger behind it. “Sean didn’t mean that – obviously it’s too late tonight, but Richie can come back tomorrow, if he wants. If it’s not any trouble, though, it might be better if he stayed out of the house until Monday. Give his father some time to calm down,” she finished wearily.

“Richie is always welcome here, Ms. Foley,” Robert said warmly.

“I’m glad,” she said sincerely. “Thank you for your help. I apologize again for calling so late, but you know how it is when you’re worried about your child.”

“That I do,” Robert said with a smile. “Goodnight, Ms. Foley.”

“Goodnight.”

Robert hung up the phone with a click. He sighed, lying on his side a moment before pulling back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood up, walking out into the dark hallway and walking to Virgil’s room. For a moment, he just stood in front of the door to his son’s room, letting his eyes readjust to the dark. Then he quietly opened the door, peering into the dark room.

The boys were lying in Virgil’s bed, his son curled protectively around Richie. Both boys looked peaceful as they slept. Robert watched them a little longer before sighing and closing the door behind him, following the stream of light in the darkened hallway back to his room. Mr. Foley meant well, Robert knew. His brief interaction with Sean on the occasion of Richie’s kidnapping had been enough to prove to anyone with eyes that Mr. Foley loved his son. Even so, it was equally clear that Mr. Foley did not understand his son.

As Robert turned off the lamp on his nightstand and got back in bed, he thought a little more about Richie and his father. In his line of work, such situations were so commonplace that he had become a little desensitized. Now, though, he took a moment to wonder at the fact that a boy like Richie had come from such a father. He pitied Richie’s father in that moment; Sean Foley had a wonderful, gifted son, but he would likely not appreciate it until he had pushed his son to the point where a relationship that was anything but strained would be impossible, unable to see past his own narrow viewpoints.

_One man’s trash is another man’s treasure_ , Robert thought as he began to drift back to sleep. _It’s a shame that Richie’s father can’t see his son for the treasure that he is_. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2011, inspired by the fact that when my best friend's asshole bio-dad kicked her out, she left without shoes, or much else, for that matter. I haven't edited it since then, and... I may well do so later, since my understanding of abusive situations has changed a bit in the intervening years, but for now, it's posted as is.


End file.
